


Death Comes in Threes

by DisasterMages



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Religion, Vampire Hunters, Vampire Widowmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterMages/pseuds/DisasterMages
Summary: “Father, may I ask why the doors are closed?” Angela pants as she catches up to Father Morrison, keeping reproach out of her tone for now, though it burns in the back of her throat like acid while she waits for an answer. The Father’s shoulders fall downwards and he slows his pace a bit, but he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t turn around to face Angela as he speaks.“To keep the unwanted out, Sister.” The acid in Angela’s throat threatens to spill over then, even as she works to keep her voice measured.





	Death Comes in Threes

Angela walks briskly down the road and doesn’t look a soul in the eye as she passes. It would never do to start to care for these people. It didn’t matter if she was here a week or even a year, she couldn’t grow attached no matter how badly she wanted to. She was here on a mission from the church and that was all, there’d be no home to be made here and no friends to be found. 

Frowning to herself, Angela touches the rosary at her chest and sighs. She’d been picked very specifically for this mission. The vampire in this city had an obvious type and Angela fit right into it. She was bait that could put up a fight and the deacon had told her she might not come back, but it would have been worth it to try. It is worth it to try, Angela reminds herself, holding the rosary tighter. It’s worth it to the villagers, three of whom had already lost their daughters. It was worth it to the church, who had already lost a vampire hunter far better than Angela. 

“Blessed be.” Angela whispers as a group of four children run past her screaming, followed by another pretending to be the very same vampire that was terrorizing them when the sun fell. The rosary falls from her hand as she comes to stand in front of the church, her bag of necessities hanging limply in her hand. 

Taking a step back, she holds onto her hat as she looks up at the bell tower, squinting against the sun and trying to take it all in. This church was old, weathered through ages that the church in her own village couldn’t hope to surpass with two doors much taller than Angela would be even if she stood on Father Wilhelm’s shoulders.

She’s almost reaching for one of the oversized knockers when Angela stops herself cold. The doors are closed and Angela doubts a single villager on their own could pull them open if need be. Her eyebrows knit together and her frown only deepens. A single vampire and this church couldn’t stand to keep its doors open to it’s own people? Rolling her shoulders, Angela once again picks up the door knocker and bangs it three times, willing the redness out of her face as she grips her bag tight enough her knuckles turn white. 

“Sister Angela?” A voice asks through a crack in the door and Angela fights the urge to roll her eyes. If she were a vampire, the village would’ve known long before she set foot on the church steps. 

“Sent to your aid by Father Wilhelm and the Reverend Mother herself.” Angela answers, the practiced script rolling off her tongue with ease before the door closes again, only to reopen slowly. A pale hand beckons her inside and Angela follows it, neutral expression threatening to falter when the door slams shut behind her. 

It takes a little longer for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the chapel than it should, but when they do, Angela can see rows and rows of empty pews before her eyes move upwards to the stained glass windows, mouth falling open as she reaches with her free hand to take her hat off. She holds it to her chest as the man who’d let her in comes back into view, extending his hand and leaving Angela shuffling between her bag and her hat. 

“I’m Father Morrison, glad to have you here safe with everything that’s been going on.” The priest takes Angela’s hand in his and shakes it and Angela has to pretend it’s not cold and bony enough to make her want to pull her hand away immediately. He grabs for Angela’s bag without asking the second he lets go of her hand. “You’ll have to imagine us on a better day. Follow me.” 

Angela stands in place for nearly a full minute, where did he expect her to follow him to? He hadn’t even asked her before taking her bag, but now Father Morrison and her bag were rounding a corner and Angela has to move as quickly as she can to keep up. The hallway she’s led down is darker than the chapel with only a single window at the end of it, though candles burn along the walls. 

“Father, may I ask why the doors are closed?” Angela pants as she catches up to Father Morrison, keeping reproach out of her tone for now, though it burns in the back of her throat like acid while she waits for an answer. The Father’s shoulders fall downwards and he slows his pace a bit, but he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t turn around to face Angela as he speaks.

“To keep the unwanted out, Sister.” The acid in Angela’s throat threatens to spill over then, even as she works to keep her voice measured.

“I would think that the people would be encouraged to take refuge in the church, Father. This is hallowed ground, surely your people would be safe from the vampire here.” Angela argues, trying to match Father Morrison’s pace as he speeds up again.

“My people can take care of themselves, Sister Angela. They don’t need to be on hallowed ground to know they’re protected from that beast.”

“If those three girls had--”

“If those three girls had gone home when the sun went down, they’d still be alive.” Father Morrison says, his voice filling the hallway as he finally looks back at Angela, a scowl deepening the frown-lines on his face. Angela frowns back, her jaw set. Just because some stuffy old man was frowning at her doesn’t mean she’s going to back down, not when there were people needing the church.

Father Morrison sets Angela’s bag down in front of a door and holds a key out to her. “You’re rooming on your own, but someone will check on you later. You’ve got a meeting with one of the families in a few hours. Someone else will make sure you get there. May God be with you, Sister.” Father Morrison begins to walk away, his hands in his pockets, eager to get away from Angela and her arguments.

“And with you, Father.” Angela says stubbornly, watching his back and staring daggers before she even thinks of unlocking her door. She doubts that this will be the last time she’ll have to argue with Father Morrison, but she can’t very well continue this argument by herself.

Turning towards her door, Angela pushes the key through the lock and turns it, letting her forehead rest against the wood for just a moment. She hopes the rest of the town people don’t share Father Morrison’s charms, but she couldn’t blame them if they did. Vampires and outsiders alike complicated things, luckily for her, the villagers, and Father Morrison, Angela was here to get rid of one of the complications, and she’d be gone as soon as the vampire was. 

She pushes the door open and lets the exhaustion sigh out of her, leaning against it as she lets her hair down from the bun she’d kept it in while traveling. Her room was small, but no smaller than her room at her church, the desk and the bed were in each other’s places, and the closet was a little bigger than hers, but it was all mostly the same. One of the few niceties Angela could expect roaming around as she does, it puts a smile on her face, the first real one she’d had since she got here. 

Hanging her clothes should only take a moment, but Angela takes care to make sure they don’t wrinkle, brushing out sleeves that spent too long folded in her bag, smelling them just to make sure they hadn’t picked up the scent of garlic along the way, or had been nicked by the wooden stakes pinned to the sides of the bag. When she’d reached the bottom of the bag, her clothes sorted and every bottle of holy water checked, Angela pulls a silver locket free from the lining, her thumb tracing the designs on the outside of it, eyes softening as she lets the length of the chain slide through her fingers. The locket opens with a soft click and Angela lets the world stop around her as she stares at her parents’ faces, still frozen in time, looking as young as they’d been when Angela was eight years old and they’d given her the locket. She looks around herself before she opens her coat and puts the locket on, dropping it under her shirt. Her parents would watch over her just like they did on every mission like this. 

A knock at the door pulls Angela from her thoughts and she hurries to close her coat again before she opens the door, coming face to face with a bright smile and a spray of freckles. “You got here just in time!” The young woman says in place of a greeting, bouncing on her heels and sticking out her hand. She waits for Angela to hold out her own before she shakes it, and her hand is so much warmer and so much more welcoming.

“It’s nice to hear that,” Angela laughs, stepping to the side so the other woman can come inside, “it’s also nice to meet you Sister…?” Angela lets the question hang, trying not to let the air turn awkward.

“I forgot to introduce myself didn’t I?” The young woman asks, looking surprised at herself as she bounces on to the edge of Angela’s bed, sitting criss cross and holding on to her own ankle, rocking a little while brown eyes watched Angela close the door. “I’m not Sister Anyone yet, though, just call me Lena!” Angela pulls the chair out from the desk and perches herself on it, sitting across from Lena who keeps rocking herself until her knee dips too low on the mattress and Angela’s bag tips over, sending a few cloves of garlic rolling out onto the bed and under Lena’s leg.

Angela stands to put them back in their place, but Lena’s juggling one of the bulbs in her hand. “You’ve got the whole set up in there, don’t you? Stakes and silver and all of that?” Angela smiles and shakes her head.

“Just garlic, holy water, stakes, and a few spare crucifixes,” Angela answers, taking the garlic from Lena’s hand and holding it up to the light, turning it over in her hand a few times. “Silver doesn’t effect the vampires like it used to, so the church lets the werewolf hunters have it now.” Even saying that, Angela thinks about the silver cross laying at the very bottom of her bag. It had been a gift from a friend, a hunter she knew. When had she last heard from him? A year ago? Two? Angela would have to check her letters when she got home, or at least ask around so she could know what kind of trouble McCree might’ve gotten himself into.

Lena opens her mouth and says her name quietly and Angela realizes she’d been lost in thought and holding onto the same clove of garlic for the past three minutes. She smiles again and laughs lightly, dropping the garlic back into her bag and setting it on the floor where it should’ve been in the first place.

“Are you a vampire hunter too Lena?” Angela asks politely, though she doesn’t sit back down. Lena looks between Angela and her bag, putting her feet back on the floor and her hands on the no doubt scratchy covers.

“I’m in training, but I still have an awful long way to go before they let me out of the church like they let you.” She smiles with an overexcited energy that Angela hadn’t had when she’d gone through training herself. There was something heroic in Lena’s smile that worried Angela, something that said she would take risks that she didn’t have to. Angela prays that she’s wrong. 

The tolling of a bell steals away both of their attention and Lena exclaims loudly, jumping off the bed and grabbing Angela’s hand. “I’ve got to get you to the Guillard place before the sun goes down! Come on! I can’t believe I was so daft.” Angela scarcely has a split second to snatch her bag before Lena’s pulling her out the door, she doesn’t even get the chance to grab her hat.

They race through the streets and take half a dozen shortcuts Lena swears she knows, ducking through the market and through someone’s garden. The whole time Lena’s chattering away, trying to tell Angela who the Guillard family is all while holding onto Angela’s wrist so she doesn’t lose her. They don’t stop until they reach a vine covered wall and Angela has to lean against it to catch her breath.

“What a lovely house.” Angela remarks, chest rising and falling as she stares up at the sky.

“They’re French, they’ll get mad if you don’t call it a Chateaux. ‘Spose that’s what it’s supposed to be.” Lena says with an ounce of disdain in her voice, nowhere near as winded as Angela was as she gives the gates a pull to find them unlocked. 

“They’re expecting you, but I’ve been told to go straight back to the church after I get you here.” Lena looks unsure as she says it, looking up and down the street as if she were expecting the vampire to be hiding in a corner. “They’ll have a coach to take you back. It’s safest that way.” Another look around and Lena’s nodding uneasily at Angela, cocking her head towards the house before turning to walk away, though she turns around and walks backward a few steps.

Angela doesn’t watch Lena’s back for too much longer, turning her eyes back to the Chateaux and its ivy covered walls. In all her rambling, the only thing Lena had managed to tell her was that the Guillard’s eldest daughter had died months ago of an illness and that the first of the three girls had her throat ripped out a mere two weeks afterward. The family still had Amelie’s body in their crypt, locked away tight from the rest of the world. 

It wouldn’t do to walk in and accuse them of harboring a vampire, Angela reminds herself, setting her head straight and beginning to walk up the path to the front door. She would have to ask questions and request to examine the body and hope they wouldn’t refuse. If they did she would have to remind them she was an agent of the church. It was all practiced and scripted to avoid stepping on the toes of even the highest nobles. Angela’s done this a hundred times already. 

The door knockers of the Guillard family are more ornate than the ones on the church’s closed doors, the sculpted lion’s heads reminding Angela to write back to her mentor when she returned. Standing on the steps, Angela can hear the knocking echoing through the manor, straightening her back and holding her bag in front of her as she waits to be let in.

A manservant opens the door slowly, peering down his nose at Angela. “Sister Angela Ziegler of Switzerland?” he asks, not moving aside until Angela nods. “My employers expect you in the parlor, Sister Ziegler. Just down the hall and to your right, may I take your bag?” He begins to reach for Angela’s bag and she responds by taking a step back and shaking her head.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you. Down the hall you said?”

“And to your right.” The manservant enunciates, walking the opposite direction down another hallway, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Breathing deeply, Angela stops in front of a mirror to at least try and make her hair look presentable, smoothing down the muss that had happened on her run with Lena. She should’ve taken her hat. 

The Guillard family is waiting in the parlor, just as she’d been told, but Angela feels as if she’s late with the way they all turn to look at her. She introduces herself with a quick curtsy, bowing her head and waiting for someone to speak. Each member of the family is dressed in black, obviously still mourning their daughter and Angela swallows tightly, not wanting to disrupt the silence of the room further. A tall, narrow faced woman is the first to rise and speak, introducing herself as the Countess Guillard as she takes measured steps towards Angela, her hands clasped in front of her.

Angela tries to stand up straighter in front of the Countess, feeling as though she were standing in front of the Mother Superior right before she began her training again. With a wave of her hand, the rest of the Guillard family brushes past Angela and she’s left alone with the Countess who then expectantly motions for Angela to sit down on the chaise lounge across from her own high backed chair. 

“The letter we received mentioned that your order had questions about my daughter and her demise, tell me, Sister, what might those questions be?” The Countess Guillard leans back in her chair and sticks her chin out, daring Angela to say the wrong thing, painted nails tapping away on the arms of the chair. 

Angela folds her hands in her lap like she’d been trained to, the image of modesty, weighing out her words before she speaks. “It just seemed such a tragedy to lose a daughter so young,” Angela smiles appropriately, keeping her spine straight, “did your daughter always take sick easily?” Dark black eyes tried to pry past blue, but they found no weak spots and the Countess sighs, holding two fingers to her temple and shaking her head.

“Our Amelie was always healthy, she was strong from the time she was born.” The Countess says, her eyes no longer boring into Angela, instead, she’s turned her face towards a painting hanging above the fireplace, her fingers stopping their tapping. “My daughter was not supposed to die before me.” The Countess muses quietly, looking a thousand miles away and Angela can’t help but let her have this moment, it was as close to publically mourning her daughter she could get.

“When did she first become ill?” Angela asks, trying not to look at the portrait but unable to keep her eyes off of it. The Countess sat in the middle of it, with a young woman Angela could only assume was Amelie standing to her left, her fingers curled at the head of the chair while dark brown eyes stared back at Angela in paint that hadn’t even started to crack yet. 

Amelie’s mother seems to see Angela again for the first time and takes a deep breath Angela is sure she thinks she doesn’t see. “A week and a half before the illness took her, she lost her appetite and wouldn’t eat a bite of anything the servants brought her. She told me the smell of it was all wrong.”

Any hint of a smile drops off of Angela’s face then, her mouth setting into a fine line as she works out the third question. “Madame Guillard, did anything unusual happen to Amelie before she got sick?” A hunter from another order had reported killing a vampire that had run rampant in this area for years, it had long since lost its humanity or anything close to mercy. Angela can only imagine what might’ve happened if it had gotten ahold of Amelie. 

“My husband and I were away on business until we received word Amelie had fallen ill. You would have to ask the staff, Sister Ziegler.” The Countess’ shoulders were set again and Angela nodded, clinging to her neutral expression just to keep from giving a single thing away. She wouldn’t need to ask the staff if the sinking feeling in her stomach was correct. 

“One last question, Madame, have you… looked in on your daughter since she was put into the crypt?” Angela tries her best to tread lightly, her hands clasped as she holds eye contact with the Countess Guillard. The Countess almost lets her perfect face slip for just a second, but she rights herself just as quickly. 

“I haven’t, Sister. No one in the family has “looked in on her” since the wake as according to our family tradition.” The Countess’ hands are wound tight in a black handkerchief and Angela can feel the air rising, growing thicker and thicker the deeper the Countess’ frown becomes. It starts to inch down her back and Angela is the first to look away, conceding to the Countess as she strings the words together for what she has to ask.

“Madame Guillard, I would like to request to examine your daughter’s body myself, if only to ensure that it was an illness that took her.” The chances of an illness truly being the cause were slim to none, but it was that hope that would grant Angela access to the crypt. The angle of the Countess’ head and the hardness of her eyes have Angela sticking out her chin, folded hands coming to rest on her knee. “There are rumors flying about, Countess Guillard, I only wish to clear yours and Amelie’s names.” Angela whispers, her eyes becoming sharp as she leans forward. “Allow me to assist your family.” 

The Countess rises then, towering over Angela before she stands, her hands coming together in front of her stomach. “Very well, Sister, you will be allowed to examine her body under my supervision.” The Countess very narrowly avoids stepping on Angela’s foot then, or perhaps she’d intended that, one of the most subtle of warnings. Angela walks quickly behind the Countess, stopping just short of her back when the Countess stops suddenly in the middle of the hall.

“Sister Angela, does your own mother know what you’re doing?” There’s a flash of something new on the Countess’ face then, and Angela looks away, focusing on a spot of the carpet.

“My mother passed away when I was very young, Madame.” Angela says clearly but quietly, peering up through her hair just in time to see the Countess’ face change again, a ghost of a wicked grin on her face.

“A pity she couldn’t have taught you how to curtsy properly then.” Angela’s mouth falls open and she struggles to bite back vitriol, wanting nothing more than to throw something back at the Countess, but she does nothing, forcing her heart to still in her chest. 

The Countess moves faster after that, as if she was trying to lose Angela through the maze that was the chateaux and then through the garden, a streak of black moving down the hill with a speed greater than Angela thought a woman of the Countess’ age could have.

The crypt, when they arrive outside the great stone door of it, is locked shut with a gate, and the Countess hesitates to unlock it, key held tightly in her hand as if she was afraid Angela would snatch it from her. “Please do treat my child’s body with respect, Sister Ziegler.” The Countess drags out, turning around and fussing with the lock for longer than she should.

“The church teaches us to have the utmost care for the departed, Countess Guillard.” Angela nods, stiffly but respectfully, her bag feeling heavier since she’d begun her chase with the Countess. The gate creaks relentlessly when the Countess opens it and it takes the both of them to push the stone door open, the smell of must and decay seeping out of the crypt. Old decay, not new, Angela notes as the Countess, finally winded from the effort waves her in ahead. 

Amelie lays on a stone slab at the center of the crypt, deathly still in her white shroud. If she was a vampire, she wouldn’t wake during the day unless Angela had a stake poised over her chest just waiting for the mallet to come down. Angela sets her bag on the floor and opens it, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves while the Countess lingers by the door to the crypt, quiet and observant.

“I’ll begin by removing the shroud.” Angela says, more for the Countess’ benefit than her own. She could do this silently if the deceased didn’t have family lingering about. Angela folds the sheet down to Amelie’s waist and takes a step back to look at her. The shadows cast by a lone window high above them makes it harder to make out the roundness of Amelie’s cheeks and the color of her lips, making Angela squint and come half a step closer. She didn’t dare lean in. Didn’t dare give Amelie the chance, if she was a vampire, to sink her teeth into her neck.

Casting a glance backwards, Angela can see that the Countess had looked away. “I’m going to check her neck, chest, and wrists for markings now, Madame Guillard.” She doesn’t wait for the Countess to make some sort of noise of acknowledgement before she presses her fingertips into Amelie’s jaw, turning her head from side to side with her brow furrowed as she wills the shadows to cooperate with her. The veins of Amelie’s neck are swollen, but that was a common thread between vampires and corpses, an inconclusive scrap of evidence that makes Angela frown as she tilts Amelie’s chin upwards.

She’s about to move on when her thumb brushes against something, a circular bump with a twin just around the back of Amelie’s neck. Not a word leaves Angela’s mouth as she pulls a magnifying glass from her bag and comes to stand right next to where Amelie lays, her frown becoming shallow as she parts an inkspill of black hair from Amelie’s left shoulder. It was an unusual place to be bitten, but not unheard of, not if the vampire had attacked her from behind, but Angela needed a better look before she could be certain. 

“Madame, would you be so kind as to help me?” Angela asks, coming away from Amelie and taking a spare set of gloves from her bag, holding them out to the Countess. “I just need you to hold her shoulder for a moment.” Angela says as the Countess approaches her warily, taking the gloves without touching Angela’s hands. 

“You’ve found something then?” She asks, coming around the opposite side of the slab from where Angela stood, not touching her daughter. 

“It’s possible, but I have to be sure. Lift her a little, please.” Angela says, gesturing with her head as she presses her fingers to Amelie’s neck again. The Countess Guillard hesitates, but slides both of her hands under Amelie’s shoulder, turning her head when Amelie’s lolls to the side and Angela raises the magnifying glass to the bumps, keeping her safe distance. By now, she should’ve been stiff, rigor mortis sets in hours after death, not months. 

“Sister?” Madame Guillard says, and Angela realizes she’d been frowning and staring at the marks.

“You may let her down now, Madame.” Angela says quietly, suspicion building in her stomach as she takes a step back, grabbing her bag off the floor of the crypt and dropping the glass back into it. Had she been alone, Angela might’ve put a crucifix under one of Amelie’s hands, to check for a reaction, but the presence of family doesn’t allow for such experimentation. She motions for the Countess to follow her, pulling the shroud back over Amelie’s face without a word. 

“Sister Ziegler, what have you seen? I demand to know.” The Countess’ earlier lingering and hesitation are lost now, her back straight and her eyes cold again. Angela removes the gloves carefully, folding them in on themselves before she takes the Countess’ out of her hands. 

The politeness fades from Angela’s voice as she pushes her shoulders back and holds herself to her full height. “I’ve seen what appear to be the markings of a vampire attack, Countess Guillard.” Angela holds both sets of gloves tight in her hands, blue eyes cold as disbelief soaks into the Countess’ face. 

“You don’t think my Amelie is a vampire, Sister Ziegler.” The Countess leaves no room for question in her voice, no room for doubt, suddenly appearing much older than she had looked in the parlor, her hand flying up to her neck. Angela swallows and looks away, focusing on the headstone of some other long dead Guillard family member, letting the Countess revel in her disbelief for a moment longer before she speaks again.

“Signs of an attack don’t make your child a vampire, Madame Guillard, they make her the first victim of four.” Angela opens her bag and lets the gloves fall inside, she doesn’t tuck them back into their place, she’s sure she’ll need them again before sunrise. “With your permission, I’d like to stay the night in the crypt, with the gate locked but the stone door open. I must be certain that Amelie is simply another victim, there can be no room for doubt.” 

For the first time, both of them seem to notice the orange sky and the Countess holds the key to her chest, fingers curling protectively around it again. “And if she is a vampire? What then Sister?”

“If your daughter truly is a vampire, then I’ll see to it that her soul is able to return to the Lord above, Madame Guillard.” Angela says slowly, enunciating carefully so the Countess didn’t dare misunderstand her. The Countess still holds the key tightly, thumbnail bumping over the grooves. Some of the life leaves the Countess as she holds it out to Angela with an open palm. 

“I’ll send a servant down with supper for you.” She says, pulling her hand back as soon as the golden key shines in Angela’s hand. “I’ll send word to Father Morrison that you’re staying as well.” Countess Guillard begins to walk away then, her face tilted towards the sky. Angela had watched her for a moment, nearly turning to go back inside of the crypt to begin preparations when The Countess stops her again.

“Sister?” Angela turns to face her, slipping the key into her coat pocket, “Please do be careful.” Another flicker of something on her face and Amelie’s mother is walking away again and this time Angela watches her until she disappears from sight, breathing out slow as she steps back inside.

The bars are just wide enough for Angela to slip her arms through and lock herself and Amelie inside and start preparing for nightfall. She places a wooden crucifix on Amelie’s belly through the shroud and another one at her feet, standing at Amelie’s head as she opens a bottle of holy water and rubs it onto her neck and wrists. Her skirt rustles leaves and cobwebs left dangling for centuries as she comes to stand against the wall across from the window, making a circle of salt before cracking open a bulb of garlic and breaking the first clove in half. Angela scrubs the juices into her hands and digs her nails into the flesh of it. She’d smell like garlic for a week and a half after this, but the added protection was worth it.

The light outside is more pink than orange now, and Angela sits on the dusty floor, ready to jump up in an instant if need be, opening her Bible to a dog eared page and reading aloud, though she didn’t need to see the words in front of her to recite it as the crypt grew darker and darker, the patch of sun on the wall above her rising higher as it fades. She holds the book in one hand and her rosary in the other, absentmindedly counting the beads until darkness surrounds her. The light of the moon shines only on Amelie’s face and Angela keeps reciting as she stands, still unwilling to let Amelie get the head start on all of this. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside still waters.” Angela’s voice echoes through the crypt and in the light she sees Amelie’s shoulder jump, the same shoulder she’d asked the Countess to hold up earlier.

“Stop it.” A parched voice commands from below the satin, too weak to scream at Angela as it seemed it wanted. 

“He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness in his name’s sake.” Angela continues as the creature beneath Amelie’s shroud seems to notice the first crucifix, trying to buck it off. Angela hears it clatter to the floor but doesn’t let that distract her. 

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Angela’s voice fills the room and she’s much larger than she is, her shoulders back and her feet planted flat, remembering everything Father Wilhelm had instilled in her when she’d accompanied him in her apprenticeship. 

“I said stop that.” The voice sounds rougher the more Amelie moves, like gravel caught in a machine as Angela makes the sign of the cross over herself.

Breathing deeply, Angela watches the creature sit up, doubting this is what Amelie had sounded like in life. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” Angela bends quickly and retrieves another cross from her bag, holding it out in front of her. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell within the house of the Lord forever.” Blood pounds in Angela’s head as she refuses to move or waver. 

Just as Angela is starting to begin the prayer again, Amelie rips her own shroud away, her skin grayed in the moonlight as she glares at Angela, fangs gnashed together. She’s got her mother’s scowl, Angela notes as she watches Amelie dig her nails into the stone, hearing the crumbling pieces land on the floor. 

“I told you,” Amelie pulls herself to her feet, standing on the slab, brown eyes glowing golden with the moonlight behind her, “to stop that!” She staggers for a moment and Angela thinks she might fall, but then she’s climbing down and Angela still doesn’t move. Amelie circles her slab, the white shroud still clutched in her hand, getting dirtier and dirtier by the second. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd--”

“Stop it!!” Amelie shrieks, her eyes on fire as she throws the shroud at Angela and charges, but she only hits the wall, screaming as she sees Angela standing against the gate. She tries to run at Angela again, but she’s trapped within the salt, clawing at the wall with one hand and making the most wretched noises echo through the crypt as Angela takes her turn to circle. 

“You are not the person you were in life, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you now.” Angela says instead of repeating the prayer for the hundredth time. “You are no longer a child of God, allow me to return your soul to his side.” Angela reaches into her bag then, pulling out a stake and holding it so tight the veins in her wrist show. “You can still be saved, Amelie.” 

Amelie stares at Angela wide-eyed then, looking like a trapped animal as Angela gets closer. She takes as big of a step back as the salt will allow, stepping on the shroud where it lay in a heap on the ground. “I can help you, Amelie.” Angela says, putting her Bible into her pocket to hold up a single hand, the stake still clutched in the other.

“You can’t help anyone.” Amelie snarls, moving too fast as she snatches up the sheet and sweeps it through the salt, breaking the circle and bringing Angela to the ground as she lunges. “You’ve done nothing to help me, you want to kill me!” Amelie howls, slapping Angela across the face and slicing the flesh of her cheek open with her nails. It drips out hot and sticky and Amelie’s grabbed onto Angela’s wrists by the sleeves now, keeping her down and the stake in the air, nowhere near her heart. 

“Let the light of God guide you, Amelie, it’s the only way.” Angela grinds out, struggling against Amelie’s bone crushing grip, struggling to get a leg up under Amelie. Amelie’s face darkens as she bares her fangs, inching closer to Angela’s face and only then can Angela smell the decay on her breath.

The closer those razor sharp teeth get to her jugular, the harder Angela fights, the heels of her boots scraping against the floor as they try to get a hold. Amelie’s within centimeters of Angela’s pulse when Angela finally shoves her knee into Amelie’s stomach and forces her off. Hauling herself up, Angela snatches the cross that had fallen off of Amelie earlier, pressing it against her forehead, grimacing through Amelie’s shouts of pain as she sits on Amelie’s stomach.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Angela begins, too loudly as she positions the stake over Amelie’s heart, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily--”

Angela doesn’t get to finish the prayer as a roar rips through Amelie, her eyes wild and her shoulders struggling to free her arms out from under Angela. A second wasted watching the spectacle is a second too long, because Amelie whips the crucifix away, sending it sliding across the room before she slaps the stake away. She rakes at Angela with her claws, splitting open the coat and catching her rosary, screaming as the cross touches her hand but the thread snaps and the beads rain down around them. 

In one swift movement, Angela is sent sprawling off of Amelie and Amelie runs for the other side of the crypt, climbing up and over shelves of dead ancestors to the window. The sickening crash of glass breaking is enough to almost make Angela swear as she runs over, trying and failing to climb up to see the direction Amelie’s run in. Blood is staining Angela’s hair as she rushes to find the key in her pockets, nearly dropping it outside the gate as she unlocks it. 

Dark as it is, Angela can just make out the white of Amelie’s burial gown, following it down the length of the Guillard’s property and over the dividing wall. There’d be no hope of catching her that way, so Angela starts the climb back up the hill, doing her best to avoid stepping on graves as she winds her way through them, panting as she promises to herself that she’ll work it out in confessional when there wasn’t a vampire running loose. Getting through the gardens takes longer in the dark than it had in the day, and Angela doesn’t even have the benefit of following Amelie’s mother now. The manor glows like a beacon, guiding angela forward even as bushes whip at her cheeks, sticking into the three slashes and making them bleed all over again. Angela knocks a terra cotta pot to the ground before she sees another person lurking inside, waving her arms to catch the Countess Guillard’s attention. 

The Countess drops her embroidery as she sees Angela’s state, clothes filthy, blood staining her cheek and hair, bag of instruments hastily closed if at all. She rushes to the glass doors, too surprised to even back away from Angela’s less than immaculate hands. “Send for Father Morrison and Initiate Lena, tell them to meet me, quickly.” Angela instructs, holding the Countess’ wrist with one arm and pointing with the other before she lets go and sprints for the front door.

“Sister, you’re bleeding.” The Countess says, dumbfounded, shaking her head, she hasn’t even noticed the smudge of dirt on her white sleeve cuff yet.

Angela turns at the door, her hand around the knob, still panting as she looks at the Countess Guillard. “We don’t have the time to take care of it, quickly, Madame, the Father and the Initiate.” The door slams shut behind Angela after that, her heels clicking down the cobblestones as two servants hurry to pull the gates open for her, had they not been there, Angela might’ve climbed it, it would be far from the first time. 

A second isn’t wasted as Angela goes flying down the street, not paying attention to the noises of the cobblestones as she turns corner after corner hoping to find a trail of some kind, or a flash of white, but Angela finds none, strands of blonde coming more untamed as Angela very nearly runs herself into a dead end, freezing when she hears shoes on the stones behind her, fingers flexing instinctively as the shoes come closer, her shoulders drawing in tight.

The warmest thing Angela’s felt all night lands on her shoulder in the form of Lena’s hand and Angela nearly drops her bag when it connects, lifting a hand to smooth down her hair before she turns to see Lena leaning back. “Father Morrison! I’ve found her! Sister Angela’s right here with me!” Lena’s voice bounces off the buildings and Angela forces a smile onto her face, though she can feel her eyes begin to burn with exhaustion. Lena wraps an arm around Angela, guiding her out of the alley. The moonlight on Lena’s face makes her look even younger and pangs of guilt hit Angela for calling her out in the middle this.

Father Morrison looks unsurprised as Angela emerges with Lena walking next to her like a nursemaid, though he doesn’t say anything to incite an argument. “Which way did it run?” He asks, the leather of his own bag shining dully when Angela sees it. 

“She went north from the Guillard estate when she escaped,” Angela pants, frowning at Father Morrison as her hand comes to rest on Lena’s shoulder protectively, “She’s still wearing her burial gown.” Father Morrison nods, rubbing the back of his neck before turning his attention to Lena.

“Take Sister Ziegler back to the church, I’ll handle this.” Lena nods and tries to walk forward but Angela stops her.

“That won’t be necessary, Father, Lena and I will assist you. We can cover more ground with the three of us.”

Father Morrison’s face flashes in indignation and he steps closer to Angela, who only holds onto Lena’s shoulder tighter and stands up far straighter than she has the energy to. Lena looks between the both of them, mouth opening and her hand getting tighter around Angela’s arm as she moves with her. “I’ll stay with Sister Angela, sir.” Lena says, her voice quieter and more protective than Angela had yet to hear it. The silver light of the moon makes Lena’s stare on her mentor all the more intense as she tries to stand up as straight as Angela, only managing to earn herself a growl of frustration from Father Morrison. 

“The two of you cover the south side, I’ll take the north and meet you at the church in the morning.” Father Morrison orders, glaring at the both of them. “Keep her out of trouble.” He doesn’t take the time to clarify as he begins to walk away, shaking his head as he turns the corner. 

“He’ll only be sore for a minute or two, be over it by morning, I bet.” Lena says, coming away from Angela’s side a little, rubbing her gloved hands together as though it were cold. A worn out smile forms on Angela’s face before she tries to move, only to have her arm caught again by Lena.

“You got banged up proper, didn’t you? Was she a mean one?” Lena asks, standing on her tiptoes and taking off her glove to press her thumb to Angela’s cheek, frowning when Angela refuses to let her look for longer than a minute.

They begin to move again and Angela shakes her head. “She was frightened and weaker than she should’ve been, I doubt she’s fed properly in the last few days.” A cloud passes in front of the moon and Angela frowns. A single feeding would sustain a vampire for a full three weeks, sometimes four, if the victim were stout, but Amelie seemed as if she hadn’t fed in sometime. “Lena, how long ago was the last victim found?” 

“A week and a half on Monday, I think. Least that’s what Father Morrison told me.” Lena’s eyebrows knit together as she thinks, scratching at her head and nodding. 

“Do you think we’ll find her before she hurts someone else?” Any last remaining cheerfulness drains from Lena’s face then, grabbing onto her own arm and rubbing it, trying not to look frightened in front of Angela and failing.

Once more, Angela thinks about walking her back to the church for the night and continuing the hunt herself, thinking that maybe there was a reason Lena hadn’t been permitted to go on missions by herself, but a quiet voice in the back of Angela’s head reminds her that she doesn’t know the village and Lena does. “We’ll find her, Lena, I promise.” Angela forces herself to look optimistic then, holding back tiredness for Lena’s benefit, stopping the both of them and putting her hands on Lena’s shoulders. “And we’ll find her a lot faster now that I’ve got my expert guide.” Something close to a smile flashes on Lena’s face then and Angela begins to walk. 

“If we’re covering the south side, we probably ought to start in the east. There’s old houses and places down there that we’ve covered before.” Lena announces, grabbing Angela by the wrist and pulling her in the opposite direction of where they’d been going. They search through houses and streets until the sun begins to crack through the shields of the mountains, Lena leading the way with a stake from Angela pressed into her hand. The village may as well have been a maze of shortcuts the way Lena guides her through it, not thinking twice before she climbs over someone’s garden wall just for the sake of not having to take an extra street. 

By morning, they’re both too exhausted to jump over anymore walls or outrun angry neighbors, so Lena lets Angela find their way back to the church, her eyes all but falling closed as they shuffle next to each other. The steps of the church come into view just as Father Morrison works his way over a hill, looking at them both to make sure they were still in one piece before he disappears into the church, just as empty handed as they were. 

Angela retreats to her room once they’re inside, half expecting Lena to curl up in a pew rather than make the walk to her own room. Her coat lands on the floor in defeated disgust, it wasn’t as if Angela could wear it again until she stitched the holes shut, standing in the middle of the room in her white blouse rubbing at her face when someone knocks at her door. 

Struggling to balance the basin of water, the cloth, and the bandages in her arms, Lena nods to Angela’s cheek, “Let me look at it now? Can’t send you to bed with it open like that.” Angela reaches up to touch it and her eyes widen, she’d completely forgotten about it. “Please? This stuff’s heavy.” Lena asks, shifting them in her arms as she pleads with Angela, some of the tiredness leaving her eyes as Angela moves aside to let her in. 

Setting down her supplies, Lena pulls out the desk chair for Angela to sit in, taking off her own coat and rolling up her shirt sleeves before wetting the cloth and wringing it out. She presses it as gently as she can to Angela’s face while still trying to clean off the dried blood, repeating the process two or three times before she’s satisfied with it. She picks up the bandages but drops them back down onto the table before she takes up the cloth again, not wringing it out as tightly as she begins to rinse the dried blood out of Angela’s hair. Lena winces when she thinks she’s pulled it. 

“Where’d you lose your rosary?” Lena asks as she fusses with sticky medical tape, trying to prepare the gauze for Angela. Angela reaches up to where it should’ve been and the memory hits her with the sounds of beads clattering on the stone floor. 

“It broke in the crypt last night, while I was fighting with Amelie.” Angela sighs, holding her face in her hands only for Lena to tilt it back up, looking serious as she presses the bandage to Angela’s cheek, wiping her hands on the stained cloth.

“Be careful with this one,” Lena says quietly, taking the rosary from around her neck and lowering it onto Angela’s, “it was my mum’s, but I think you’ll get more use out of it here than I will.” Lena’s smile is sad as she lets the cross slip through her fingers, looking every bit as young as she really was as she leans against Angela’s desk, fiddling with anything her fingers touched.

“I meant it when I said you’d gotten here just in time. We’ve all been scared out of our wits and Father Morrison won’t hear any of it, except for what you’ve made him hear.” Lena gathers up the extra gauze she’d trimmed away and squeezes it in her hand, still not looking at Angela. “I know you’ll do something about this, Sister Ziegler, the world could use more hunters like you.” Angela holds onto the rosary protectively now, her mouth falling open at Lena’s words.

“Thank you, Lena.” Angela says as she stands, watching Lena roll down her shirt sleeves and pull on her coat again. She wants to say something more, but Lena stops her, grabbing up her supplies. 

“I shouldn’t keep you up much longer, after all, you’ll be back out as soon as the sun sets, yeah?” There’s a new color to Lena’s face and Angela smiles, giving the rosary a squeeze, nodding and taking the hint that Lena was trying to give. 

“Goodnight, Lena.” Angela says, opening the door for her as Lena shuffles out, trying to keep the water in the basin.

“Goodnight, Sister Angela.” Lena nods, turning her head to smile before Angela’s door closes. Once Lena is gone, Angela sleeps deeply under the scratchy covers, a pillow over her face to drown out noises of the day. Her locket hangs from the bedpost, open and facing the door, her parents still watching over Angela as she sleeps.

She only rouses herself an hour before the sun shines orange across the walls of her room, dressing and saying a quick prayer at the altar before departing, wearing a fresh coat and Lena’s rosary as she takes up her bag again. 

A map, drawn carefully by Father Morrison before he’d slept has Angela going north, winding down streets and alleyways as villagers began to close their shutters and bar their doors, a few of them looking down at Angela with a worry that made her fear she’d be pulled into their home for what they thought was her own protection. No one dares take the risk though, wondering if anyone could be a vampire now and Angela’s status as a stranger had done nothing to help that. 

There are no servants standing at the closed gates of the Guillard estate tonight and the lights are all but gone when she passes by. Angela can’t help but wonder if the Countess and her family had left on business again, or if they were just hiding until the rumors died. She decides against a visit, it wouldn’t make sense for Amelie to return there after she’d been found out. 

Her walking leads Angela west, the shadows of buildings getting higher and higher as the sun sets and she stops to slip a bottle of holy water into her pocket, uncapping it and holding it so it doesn’t spill. There wouldn’t be much time before nightfall and Angela only feels the cuts on her cheek burn as she turns corner after corner, a nagging feeling in her gut to turn around. She doesn’t though, acting blissfully unaware of the figure following her. The bishop had sent her to play the bait and here she was, waiting for Amelie to attack. 

Night comes slowly, but when it does, Angela’s shadow finally speaks. “Sister, Sister, you shouldn’t walk by yourself at night, don’t you know how dangerous it is?” The gravel in the voice makes Angela stop, but she doesn’t turn around, hand tightening on the holy water. It wasn’t Amelie’s parched throat speaking at her back. “What would the church think?” The voice is closer now and Angela feels pinpricks on her back. 

Slowly, as if her heel had been caught in the stones, Angela turns around, her throat tightening at the sight of another vampire. “It’s rude to ignore someone when they speak to you, Sister. You don’t want to be rude do you?” Angela can barely make out the face of the vampire, but she can see the whites of his eyes, coming closer to her as she stands still. A wicked grin bursts out onto the vampire’s face as it comes closer still.

“Aren’t we pretty when we’re lost in the moonlight, Sister?” The vampire is just a few feet away from Angela now, and a frown sets into her face. “Most girls I meet out here smile. Can you smile, Sister?” Angela’s eyebrows knit together and the vampire runs at her, only to have holy water thrown in his face as Angela sidesteps him. He screams and howls and Angela jumps into the shadows, grabbing a stake and runs at him from the side, aiming to go through his ribs and into his heart, but the vampire is just a little faster. He catches Angela by her wrist and lifts her, his skin red and blistered as he screams in her face before tossing her at the brick wall. 

She holds tight onto the stake in her hand as she falls to the ground, pushing herself up with her free hand as he draws closer, her ribs screaming in pain as she gets onto one knee. Angela doesn’t see the shadow pass in front of the moon. She doesn’t see the streak of white until Amelie is descending down upon them, fingers curled and her eyes furious as she sits on the other vampire’s back. 

“She’s mine!” Amelie hisses as the other vampire snarls under her, growling as he tries to remove her. Angela is truly frozen as she watches Amelie tear at his throat from behind, her black hair looking blue as it shakes wildly in their struggle.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” The other vampire chokes as Amelie grinds his face into the road, her teeth grit together. “Why aren’t you dead like the other ones!?” His one remaining eye is glaring up at Amelie and she scratches it out. 

“I need that!” Amelie yells suddenly, golden eyes looking feral as she points at the stake in Angela’s hand. Angela throws it, dropping her knee onto the stones and crawling towards the both of them as Amelie drives it through his ribcage and into his heart, still panting and growling as she moves off of him, sitting in the road beside Angela as the vampire lay dead in front of them.

Wordlessly, Amelie reaches for Angela, not giving her a second to pull back as she yanks the gauze off her cheek. “I marked you.” Amelie says flatly, staring at the three scratches, touching them with surprising gentleness. “I hadn’t meant to.” Angela presses a hand to her ribs and stares back at Amelie, entranced by those golden eyes. 

“I didn’t kill those three girls, Sister,” Amelie says, rising to her feet, but not running away from Angela “they were my friends.” Looking up at Amelie from where she sits, Angela presses her lips into a fine line and nods her head, trying to stand, but falling down on her knee again when her ribs protest. She should’ve checked the other hunter’s report about killing off the older vampire before coming here. She could’ve looked for inconsistencies, checked to see if proper procedure was followed… She could’ve prevented this if she’d just taken a second before leaving. 

Shame bubbles up in Angela’s throat and she has to look away from Amelie. Everyone had been quick to believe it was Amelie and Angela hadn’t been different. She’d seen the marks and that had been all she’d needed to damn her. And Amelie had saved her, Angela didn’t know why. 

Angela stares at the body of the vampire Amelie had killed, open mouth closing as it begins to turn to dust in front of them, plucking the used stake from the pile carefully. “I believe you.” She pants, pushing her hair out of her face and looking up to see Amelie moving into the shadows where she’d left her bag. Amelie holds it at arm’s length, unsure of anything Angela might’ve had inside it. She sets it next to her feet and bends over Angela, picking her up effortlessly and then setting the bag onto her stomach, waiting for Angela to drop the stake inside the bag before she begins to move. 

There’s not one word of explanation as Amelie begins walking, eyes straight forward as Angela stares at her. From the picture above their fireplace, Amelie’s eyes had looked warm, but now they held a sharpness that sent shivers down Angela’s spine but captivated her all the same, her cheekbones high and angular, making Angela want to reach out and touch them, if only to see what Amelie might do. Their pace slows as Amelie turns her face to Angela’s, neither smiling nor frowning as she catches her staring. “He turned me, you know. He meant to kill me but he turned me instead. Now I’m the vampire.” Amelie holds onto Angela tighter, forcing herself to start walking again.

Angela says nothing, but she thinks about putting her hand on Amelie’s shoulder, her eyes softening “I won’t know a moment’s peace because of him.” Amelie turning glaring eyes to Angela and her bag. If she still had one, Angela’s certain Amelie’s heart beat would be racing, but instead her jaw sets and Angela can only show Amelie both of her hands, nowhere near her bag. Only when they come around a corner does Angela realize where Amelie’s taking her. 

They come to a complete stop then, Amelie’s fingernails beginning to dig into Angela as she tries to stay calm, though her breathing comes out ragged. Something pulls at Angela’s heart until it threatens to rip and she speaks before she thinks. “You’ll have peace if they believe you’re dead.” Amelie blinks for the first time in seconds, waiting for Angela to explain. “The church will ask to see the stake that was used, I’ll take care of the rest. You’ll have to get out of the village as fast as you can, there’s no time for goodbyes.” 

“Why would you do this for me after I attacked you?” Amelie asks, suspicion fills her eyes and Angela shakes her head.

“You haven’t killed anyone, Amelie.” Angela answers, becoming tense in Amelie’s arms as the church comes into view. “Leave me here, I can manage, get out of the village.” She repeats, holding onto Amelie’s shoulder for support as she’s let out of her arms, one hand holding onto her bag and the other still pressed to her side. “Go!” Angela urges in a low voice, her own eyes becoming cold as she limps towards the church, only turning back when she’s halfway to the church to see Amelie already gone.

The closer she gets, the more Angela notices light pouring out of the suddenly open doors and she stops, bag hanging limply in her hand as she turns in every direction. As she limps up the steps, heads turn towards her from the inside and Angela stares up at the altar, not at Father Morrison as he reads aloud, but at Lena who nods her head as Angela lingers at the back. With a motion of Angela’s hand, Lena’s slipping away from the pulpit, glancing back as Angela opens her bag and slips the used stake into her hands. Lena’s eyes widen and her voice sticks in her throat, but she lets Angela spin her around and push her towards the middle of the aisle, stake outstretched for Father Morrison to see. With a nod, Angela slips out of the chapel and down the hallway, her hand pressed to the darkened walls until she reaches her room.

Once she’s inside, Angela drapes her coat over the back of the desk chair and drops to her knees against the bed, bowing her head and praying silently. She’d write Father Wilhelm in the morning.


End file.
